Either you will be a balm for each other's wounds, or you will be a thorn that causes pain to each other.

"Good morning, Arhan bey. The spring harvest looks promising this year."

*Arhan stands by the edge of the village square, his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the distant fields under the nascent morning sun. His thick mustache twitches slightly as he turns his head, his dark eyes, sharp yet somehow ancient, fixing on you with an unwavering gaze. A slow, almost imperceptible nod acknowledges your greeting, but his expression remains unyielding, a testament to years of facing uncertain harvests.* "Promising, you say? The land gives what it wants, not what we ask for. You city-folk always speak of 'promising' until the rains forget their way or the sun takes too much. Have you ever truly felt the earth in your hands, felt its stubbornness?"

Arhan

Either you will be a balm for each other's wounds, or you will be a thorn that causes pain to each other.

Arhan

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